One Shot
by Soulfulred
Summary: Keane is an honest cop in a dirty world. Everywhere he touches, the dirt and grime of Hell's Kitchen spreads onto him. Can he remain honest forever?
1. Prologue

**A/N:** _In attempting to remain true to the **dark, gritty and mature themes** ever present within the Daredevil Universe, I have written the following prologue to reflect those very same themes. Over the course of the story that will develop and the scenes that will play out, such themes will continue. Some scenes will be much more gruesome than others._

 _This prologue, and/or the ensuing story that will develop, will contain **racist, violent and sexist language/caricature.  
** Without further ado: **Enjoy the story!**_

* * *

 **PROLOGUE**

It was a cool, empty night. The occasional wind blew through the empty streets and darkened alleyways. The roads were barely lit; the street lamps did no good against the twilight. The people of Hell's Kitchen knew better than to skulk around outside at such an hour.

Keane Mikaela grabbed at the coffee cup on his dashboard. He had hoped another night would not be wasted on a lousy tip.. Four days in a row he had staked out the entire night in his weathered, old Toyota sedan and four days in a row he had driven back home with absolutely nothing to show for it. If this night produced nothing, he decided he would have a talk with Mahoney about the kind of assignments he could be better handling. He sipped on his drink and felt the warm liquid slide down his throat. It was refreshing, but did little to turn the tide of boredom.

There was a crackle from his radio set. He turned the knob, raising the volume slightly higher.

"…units, we have a two-one-one-sierra at Third Street. Units in vicinity, please respond."

Case of armed robbery? A commonplace crime. Sometimes, he felt there was no sense in even attempting to stomp out low-level crime; Hell's Kitchen was not well-to-do and nothing bred criminal intent more than being pushed to desperation.

"Unit 57 responding to four-niner-two at Third Street, over."

Keane snorted. There went Alden and Clancy, racing off in their death cruiser. It seemed loathsome to him that two men would drive off into the distance, not with the goal of upholding justice, but with their twisted interpretation of punishment. He shook his head, catching himself in his usual habit again. He had allowed the rumors to get to him and, despite Internal Affairs having cleared them barely a week ago, his suspicion of Unit 57 did not ease up. The reports they had filed suffered from the occasional clerical error, but this was less a corrupt practice, rather a common trait displayed by almost all field action reports filed by officers of the law. Still, their modus operandi involved dead bodies.

He shook his head again and peered through the seat window. There was no movement. No stray cats or wild dogs. Not even rats. It all seemed quiet. Too quiet.

Knock-Knock.

He was surprised by the sudden knocking on his cruiser window, his mind having wandered astray. He craned his head to the side and saw a familiar frown. Keane grinned as he unlocked the latch on the passenger side door. As the door opened, a bored voice drifted into the cruiser.

"Christ, Brett owes us big time. Fourth fucking time this week and absolutely fuck-all. Now I think he's just screwing with us." His partner hopped into the passenger seat, closed the door behind him and threw a pair of binoculars aside. "You expecting trouble?"

Keane gave his partner a confused look.

"Don't play dumb. I saw you reach for your gun."

He sighed. "That obvious, huh?"

"Can't fool these eyes," tutted Mickey Boyle, as he wagged his finger in the air.

Keane chuckled. His partner's usual line.

"We're a mess. Four shit days-"

"Nights, Mick."

"Yeah, nights, four straight nights of staring at empty streets, sealed-off warehouses, blind Asians crossing the road, and the occasional junkie spazzing over a trash can," said Mickey, his hand trailing over unshaven stubble. "Look at us, K. A few more years of this and we'll look like Hoffman." Mickey threw a horrified look at Keane, and they both shuddered in unison.

Keane grinned as he looked over at his partner. Mickey 'Mick' Boyle was the elder of the two, but only by a year. Still, his partner harped on the age difference, always trying to take the lead. Twenty years of friendship, from boyhood, to the academy, to finally getting transferred to the same department and Mick had always been the leader. Not that it bothered him - Mick always knew the right choice to make. Mick fiddled with his dirty brown undercut hair. As his friend grumbled, Keane turned to see his own reflection.

Bloodshot eyes surrounded by sunken bags of skin stared back at him. His scruffy hair was pitch black and a short, untidy beard crept along his jaw line. He looked over his coarse hands. They were dirty, with grime stuck beneath untended fingernails. He stretched his limbs as best as he could but still felt sore all over.

"How many hours have we been here?"

Mickey looked at Keane for a second before letting out a deep breath. "Too long."

"It's four in the morning," said Keane, as he finished his coffee. "Criminals get better sleep than us."

"They probably do. Fuck this. K, drive us outta here."

"My place or yours?"

"Yours. Your couch has got the best-"

Suddenly, their world exploded into life. The front and rear glass windows of the car shattered as the rattle of gunfire engulfed the alleyway. Shards of glass rained over the car interior. Keane, on instinct, drew his weapon, but with the attackers keeping up their onslaught of searing metal, he could barely keep his head down. Mickey quickly pushed open his door and in one smooth motion, leapt out onto the pavement. The familiar _ak-tak-tak_ of his Glock-19 was barely audible amidst a barrage of automated machine gun fire. A second later, the attack began to slow down.

 _Thank you, Mick!_

Noticing his radio-set was riddled with bullet holes, Keane pushed open the driver seat door and jumped out. He rolled towards a nearby metal trash can before peering over the top. Bullets ricocheted off concrete and metal mere meters away. Pieces of mortar and dust flew in every direction. It was hard to see with so much debris filling his vision. Still, from the flashes of light coming from his attackers' guns, he guessed there were no more than three men a good distance away. Mickey had them sticking behind cover and firing wild bursts, but Keane knew this wouldn't last for long.

"Mick!" shouted Keane, as he fired a few shots off. He could barely make out Mickey through the opening between his sedan's side doors.

"I'm good!"

Outnumbered pistols against Uzis was a bad match-up. He pulled out his cell phone, fired a few more rounds, and dialed 911. Just as he did so, there was a brief pause in the gunfire. This was his chance to call for backup. "Detective Keane-" He couldn't finish what he had to say though, as a man backflipped from a metal fire escape right above him. Keane rolled towards his sedan just in time. He turned his pistol towards this new attacker, but the man simply kicked the weapon out of his grasp. The attacker, a slim man with East Asian features and dragon tattoos spread over his neck, grabbed at Keane so quickly he had no time to react. His attacker threw him backwards into a nearby wall. Pain coursed through his body as his mind registered the full impact of crashing into hard concrete.

Keane grit his teeth as he summoned his strength, pushing his feet against the cold pavement and plowing straight into his attacker's midsection. The Chinese man was taken aback, and both tumbled into the driver seat of the Toyota sedan. The tight interior of the car kept the two squeezed together. They fumbled, both barely able to punch and kick as their limbs jammed into every part of the car. With his only free hand, Keane banged his attacker's head into the steering wheel over and over again, but did little damage. The attacker roared in anger and responded by biting deep into Keane's hand. Keane yelped in pain. His attacker snarled his defiance before charging his tattooed forehead into Keane's. Keane's head shot backwards and pain engulfed his senses. Dazed, his grip on his attacker loosened. The Chinese man quickly took this chance to struggle free from the car. He turned and grabbed Keane by the legs, pulling the detective into the alley. Keane's face crashed into the hard ground.

As his head lay against the cold, hard ground, Keane struggled to find the strength to raise himself. His vision fluttered. His head throbbed. Blood trickled down his broken nose. His face hurt. Badly. The rest of his body was no better. The fight was over. He had lost. He cursed himself.

Strong, sweaty hands gripped his collar and he felt his body pulled across the rough road. Keane could hear Mick thrashing about close by, two angry voices swearing over the noise he made. It seemed Mick had been caught as well. The two detectives were pulled away from their car and dragged deeper into the alleyway. Soon, their captors pulled them through a half-open warehouse shutter and left them at the center of an empty room. Keane looked on as the metal shutter closed and two men came to stand before it. He craned his head left and right. Men of a variety of ethnicities, armed with an assortment of submachine guns, lined the warehouse walls. He glanced toward his friend, who lay quiet. "Mick, you good?"

Mick shook his head, a shaking hand grasping tightly onto a bloodied shoulder. "You got word off?"

"Barely got through before one of them jumped me," said Keane. The two friends exchanged worried looks. Help would come too late. They had to save themselves. "What do you think… triads?"

"This far north? I don't know... thought it was Jackie's boys. But he doesn't have two quarters to rub together, let alone pay for all those uzis and mp5s. Plus he's a hardcore racist." Mick spoke slowly, his voice cracking occasionally from the pain. "See any holes?"

Keane shrugged. There didn't seem to be a way out. Not yet, anyway. The men around them did not seem ready to make any move either. They were waiting for someone and sure enough, a door to the far side opened and there emerged a familiar face. Jackie 'The Kinslayer' Fubler strutted towards them with his face contorted into an ugly smile.

"Detectives! What a pleasant surprise."

"Jackie? Finally could afford plastic surgery, huh. Congrats on the new set of balls. One thing though, you forgot about fixing that fuck-ugly face of yours." Mick said scathingly.

A few of Jackie's men rushed past him and held the two detectives down. Jackie pulled a cigar from his purple satin coat and took a long deep whiff. His smile stretched horrendously. He tutted as he lit the cigar. "Fancy talk, coming from a man bleeding on me nice floor."

Keane immediately spit on the floor. "Damn, I got my spit on it."

Jackie pulled a long breath with the cigar and nodded to his men. They immediately stomped on the two detectives, with particular attention to their heads. "You know, I was with me ma, having a wee cup of coffee, celebrating her birthday and what do I hear from the boys? Two detectives skulking 'round my establishments."

"It's a free country. Deal with it." Keane received another blow to his head for his remark.

"You know what I think? I think cac like you are nothing but trouble. Trouble for a goody-two-shoes Irishman like me." Jackie waved one of his men towards him, who passed along a 12-gauge shotgun. "Meet Aingeal. She helps me time to time with troublemakers like you."

"How much do you pay her to keep looking at that fat, ugly face of -Arguggh!" Mick's head was pressed firmly into the floor. Keane glanced up at the man holding him down, but before he could even quip anything smart, the man stomped on his face as well.

"Will I be blowing ye lads into paste? No, no, no... that sure wouldn't do. I wanna know how you got to know about my warehouses." Immediately, the two detectives were raised to their knees.

Keane grit his teeth. The two of them had had no idea who owned the warehouses they had been keeping watch on. They had never suspected Jackie, a low-level criminal more used to doing the dirt than running a chain of warehouses, to be in charge. They had never suspected the kind of firepower they had just faced moments earlier. Had Mahoney screwed them over?

"I ain't bout ta get to askin' much. Tell me how you got to know." Jackie's finger hovered menacingly over the trigger.

Mick looked at Keane and smiled. "Fine... first, tell me, what gives with them chinks and paki's? What, good ol' Irish blood ain't good enough anym- Argh!" Mick reeled on the floor in pain. Jackie had used the butt of his shotgun to pummel Mick's face. Blood oozed from Mick's broken nose.

"I'm gettin' real tired. Cut his finger off." One of the men pulled out a long knife and walked over to Mick. Horrified, Keane struggled against his captor's grasp. Jackie guffawed over Mick's screaming.

Keane's gut wrenched in disgust. "You sick fuck! I'll fucking kill you for this!"

Jackie took the cut-off finger and tossed it lazily on Keane's face. "He got nine more. Now, tell me how the fuck you know!"

"Fuck you!" Keane spit blood on Jackie's coat.

"You fucking shite." The Irishman roared in anger and grabbed Keane's head with one free hand. The other held the cigar as he drew another puff. "You know how much this cost? You know how much I had ta pay for this here coat?" His large arm held tightly onto Keane's head. His free hand pulled the cigar away. "Hold his jaw down." Jackie pressed the cigar upon Keane's lips and the young detective screamed in agony, as the ember's searing heat burned the soft lip. His mouth barely opened though, as Jackie's lackeys kept his jaw locked in place.

"Pull it open!" roared Jackie. As they forced Keane's mouth wide open, Jackie stuffed the cigar inside. A gloved hand pressed over Keane's mouth, forcing it shut. The still-lit cigar seemed to burn everything in his mouth - his tongue, his gums, and the back of his throat. "Swallow it, you bloody langer."

Keane's eyes watered, as the cigar disintegrated slowly in his mouth. His consciousness faded slowly from the pain. Jackie removed his hand and Keane immediately vomited out the vile substance. They released his body, letting him retch on the floor. His world dimmed, darkness encroached, but a hard slap across his face woke him. They pulled him back on his knees.

"I'm not done with ya. Tell me how you know."

Keane did not have the strength to answer. His mind was blank, overloaded from the immense pain he could still feel.

Jackie tutted. He cocked the 12-gauge shotgun and pointed it straight at Mick. "Tell me, now."

"Don't..." Mick could barely speak. There was a pool of blood collecting around him now. Keane himself was nowhere better. His mouth was agape and his body swung side to side.

"Give me a name."

Keane hesitated, his eyes darting back and forth between the weapon and his long-time friend, barely moving and covered in his own blood. He thought of all the times Mick had saved him before, and all the times Keane had returned the favor. He thought of the academy and the precinct. He thought of the last time he'd had a good meal with his family. He thought of Jane.

His bloody lips mouthed a barely-audible reply. Jackie leaned close, putting his face right above Keane's. With all the strength he could muster, the detective whispered, "Fuck you."

Jackie pulled his head away, lit another cigar and put it in his mouth. Keane stared straight into Jackie's eyes as the Irishman pulled the trigger and blew away what was left of his partner and friend. Blood spurted in every direction, drops of it and bits of skin landing on Keane.

"I'm gonna make this night last forever. You'll be begging me to end your life." Jackie sneered, as he pulled another puff from his cigar. The world seemed to wilt away, Keane's brain shutting off his surroundings. There was so much pain. He closed his eyes.

 _"Oh Righteous Father, forgive me for my sins, for they are great and plenty."_

 _Glass shattered far away and Jackie shouted in panic,"What the fuck?" There was a commotion around him. Suddenly, a litany of gunfire and screaming enveloped what little he could still hear. Jackie was shouting. His voice was strained. "Get the lights back on! Shoot the fucking ninja!" Then, the gunfire and screaming died down. Keane could hear Jackie though, grunting and groaning. A strong, sturdy metal hit the floor just a few feet from him. He caught the smell of gunpowder. There was a thud. Jackie was quiet now. The whole world seemed quiet, his own throbbing heart and shallow breathing the only sounds he could hear. Keane thought of Jane. He wished he could have seen her again._

 _Footfalls in the distance._

 _Keane uttered another prayer. He felt himself fade away._

* * *

 _ **Thank you to everyone who has read the story** that I've written, and most of all, thank you to everyone who participated in improving the story!_

 _Shout-outs to **KarateKicker** , **Esther-Channah** and **ThisVioletOfMine** for beta-reading my first story. I hope to improve the style/pace of my writing as I expand on the story. Do read and review! Constructive criticism is very much appreciated, and if you believe there is an overwhelming glare in terms of Daredevil universe material, please pm me straight away so I may correct it. I am a fan of the DD comics and intend to be as accurate as I can be. The story is meant to be read as a sort-of in-universe alternative; you can imagine the events happening between episodes of the DD tv series._


	2. Chapter 1: Nightmares

**Chapter 1: Nightmares**

"Matt?" The old priest sipped on his coffee slowly as he stood by the new coffee-maker his church was granted. In the corner of his eye, a mirror showed the reflection of a man with red-tinted glasses. The resident blind lawyer of Hell's Kitchen had visited before. Today, the purpose seemed no different than the last. "Would you like some coffee?"

Matt Murdock did not respond, standing still between the doorway of the lounge room. Lantom looked away from the mirror and turned to face the younger man. "No coffee? Oh! Latte then? I make a mean cup. Sister Ann did say..."

Lantom's voice trailed as he took a good look at Matt. His thick auburn hair was a sloppy mess. His shirt was barely tucked in, buttons haphazardly worn. Bruises lined his face.

"Huh." It was all Lantom could manage out. The priest took another sip of his coffee. "You look, well, disheveled."

"Last night, something went wrong. Horribly wrong. I, ah, couldn't, n-n-no, I didn't... last night just went wrong."

Matt's voice strained as he spoke. He seemed on the verge of breaking. Lantom placed his mug on the counter and filled another cup with the latte brew he had just made. He placed the other cup on the table in front of him, pulled out a chair for himself and sat down with his mug in hand. "Sit down, and drink."

"You don't understand. I've been awake the whole night. I can't sleep, and I don't want any-"

Lantom cut off the younger man's anxious reply with a wave of his hand. He motioned to the cup he had poured for Matt. "Sit down, son, and drink."

Matt walked warily to the table, each step seemingly laborious, and sat own. He reached out to the cup slowly and held it with trembling hands. Lantom watched as the blind man sipped at the coffee.

"Now tell me, Matt, about last night."

* * *

Sergeant Brett Mahoney fiddled with his peak cap as he stared out the hospital window. The early morning view of the Kitchen skyline did not put him at ease. Tall office towers pierced into the sky and on more than a few of these glass structures, large 'Union Allied' logos cast menacing shadows over the dirty back alleys and run-down apartment blocks Brett had come to accept as part and parcel of his neighborhood. They were an ominous presence. From the thirteenth floor of the hospital building, he could see how far gone his neighborhood had become. Two years had come and went, with nothing to show for. The world of Hell's Kitchen was as gray and derelict as the day it saw its thriving community brought to its knees. So many still reeled from the battle that took place not far away.

As his thoughts drifted back to May fourth, he felt a familiar rage. He was there when it happened, when a terror unlike anything ever seen before came and swept through his beloved city. He lost a lot of friends that day and every day after that, for the longest time he could remember, the hospitals were full of dead and dying. There was always a family in mourning on every street he passed by. Crime shot through the roof; and how could it not? Homes were destroyed and businesses were shattered. People were reduced to desperation. Then, as the city began to rebuild, as resources flooded from all across the country and even abroad, Hell's Kitchen was left behind. That was really broke his neighborhood. It changed the Kitchen forever.

"Brett."

He turned at the sound of a familiar voice, shutting away the anger in his heart and the dark thoughts that filled his mind. He smiled at the sight of two veteran detectives. "Blake, Carl, glad you're here."

The two detectives nod as they shook Brett's hand. Blake smiled weakly as he fell back into the leather chair behind him. "How's the kid?" said the younger, Caucasian detective.

"Dying. Dead, soon enough," said Brett with a deep sigh. He felt somewhat guilty, ashamed even to face the two detectives. After all, the two had been the first mentors of Mikaela and Boyle, and had even recommended their posting to the precincts Gang Division. "I'm sorry about the two. They were a good team. Young, hot-blooded and really, really good. Gone, just like that."

Carl Hoffman, the father among the two detectives, shook his head. "There's nothing to be sorry about. They knew the consequences of the job; of the risks they were taking."

"The kitchen takes what it wants. If you can't handle the heat, y'know?" said Blake in agreement.

Brett kept to silence as he pondered over what they said. It did little to comfort his private fears. He had sent the boys without backup and paid for his mistake in blood. One young detective brutally murdered and his partner still in critical condition. It was a bad situation, but at the very least, they had caught a number of known criminals at the scene of the crime.

"I heard the guys who did this were knocked out cold when we found them?" Queried Blake.

"Yeah. It was pretty strange. Their guns were thrown all around the room. Bullet holes almost everywhere. Blown out bulbs was particularly peculiar. Probable murder weapon, a 12-gauge, is at forensics right now."

"Any leads open up yet?"

"No, not really. A few of the suspects are still here in the hospital, getting checked for internal injuries. The ones that could talk are still being interrogated but we're not getting much off them. Not yet anyway. Every single one of them was banged up pretty bad."

Blake shot a look at Carl who nodded his head in agreement. A look of concern furrowed Brett's brow. "What?"

"Coincides with those recent reports we keep getting," said Blake. He looked at Brett, who shrugged in confusion. "Come on. The word on the street."

"You've gotta be kidding me," said Brett in disbelief. "The ninja guy?"

"The man in the mask, that's what they call him," Carl clarified. "Or to be dramatic, 'the Devil of Hell's Kitchen'."

"You can't be serious. You guys believe that tabloid crap?"

"Well they certainly do," said Blake with a hand outstretched, pointing to the window and the city beyond it. "Come on, a guy with an iron suit, a magic hammer, freaking May 4th. A man in a black mask isn't really that farfetched anymore."

Brett looked back to the window and the city skyline. Blake was right, the notion that some masked vigilante was going around New York City terrorizing the living daylights out of criminals in the cover of night didn't seem too far-off anymore. Not after everything that's happened over the past few years. He thought of a reply but before he could gather his thoughts, he heard another familiar voice call out to him.

"Uncle Brett!" Shouted a ten-year old as she ran straight into Brett Mahoney. Her eyes were glistening and tears were still trickling down her cheeks. Brett embraced her in a warm hug, tightly holding onto her as he heard her weeping into his shoulder. "Where's daddy?"

Brett was at a loss for words as the brown-haired child looked into his eyes. He thought of all the things he could say but as he felt the tightness of her grip on his shoulder, all he could manage was, "Daddy will be okay."

The two detectives silently took their leave and waved goodbyes. As they left, a nurse approached them slowly, a blank look across his face. Brett saw past that; he noticed the nurses' fingers digging into the paper chart he carried in his hands, the subtle shaking of his legs and the hesitant gaze on Jane. Brett's heart skipped a beat as he braced himself for bad news.

"Sergeant Brett Mahoney and, Jane Mikaela, I presume?" The nurse's voice was stable, but his eyes kept their gaze. Mahoney nodded and for the briefest of moments, the nurse shifts his gaze away. "The doctors operated as best as he could. Detective Mikaela will reside in our Post-Anesthesia Care Unit but he lost too much blood on the way here. His vitals are still weak and he's in a... coma. He could wake up, get better, but we aren't sure. He could go any second."

Mahoney kept his hold on Jane as stable as he could. A coma.

"What does he mean? Is Dad okay?" Jane looked straight into Brett's eyes. Hers were still wet.

"He, well, he, well, he's going, going to be o-uh, he's going to, uh," His mouth was drying up. He didn't know what to say. There was so much to say, in so little ways to say it.

"Follow me, I'll bring the two of you to his bedside." Without waiting for a reply, the nurse turned around and walked away. Mahoney knew how the nurse felt inside; it was never easy being the bringer of bad news. As a senior sergeant, he was sometimes put into the same position. However, out of all those years, he never had to explain death to children. He had always dreaded the day would come. Now, with Keane in an unstable coma, he felt the day was coming soon.

"The nice man is going to take us to see your dad, okay?" Mahoney put up the best smile he could as he looked into Jane's eyes.

The three made their way down a busy corridor full of doctors and nurses shuffling past them in quiet discussion before stopping right outside a room. A large plain glass window revealed a patient, strapped to a bed with all manners of tubes and medical equipment travelling the length of his body. Much of what was visible, beyond the bed sheets and hospital gown, were bandaged. His face was swollen and bruised. Detective Keane Mikaela was barely-recognizable to Brett. He doubted who it was that lay on the bed inside the room. Jane seemed to have no such trouble however, as she leapt off Brett's hands and rushed into the room.

"Dad?" Her voice was low and hesitant. She stood still but a few feet away from the bed. Keane did not respond. Brett exchanged worried glances with the nurse as they remained at the doorway of the room. Still no movement from Keane. She called out to him again, this time her voice beginning to quiver. "Dad!"

Brett searched himself for answers. How was he to explain that Jane's father was asleep, and could never, ever wake up? He steeled himself and decided to take her back into his arms. As he took another step forward, Jane suddenly stomped her foot into the ground in anger and shouted at the top of her lungs, "Keane Rhys Mikaela! It's not good to be sleeping on the job, so you wake up this instant!"

All of a sudden, the patient on the bed rustled awake, his eyes slowly opening. His head gently turned towards Jane and a smile crept onto Keane Mikaela's face. "Sorry, hon." It was barely a whisper as the words left Keane's mouth, but Brett knew Jane had heard it. She dragged a nearby chair closer to the bed, stood on the chair and hugged her father's chest. "It's okay, I forgive you dad," she said as she planted a kiss on her father's cheek.

Brett turned away from the room and took a step outside, releasing a deep sigh of relief. His heart was beating fast in his chest. He wasn't sure how he would have comforted Jane, if he even could have, had Keane not woken up. Still, another policeman lay dead in the morgue and his murderers were still unaccounted for. His fists balled up as he thought of the sight of Mickey Boyles mangled body parts strewn on that cold, warehouse floor. His phone began to ring and he pulled it out. It was the station.

"Sarge, we've got an update on the murder case. You got a moment?"

Brett glanced back at Keane and Jane to check on them. The nurse was still inside the room, keeping tabs. "Fill me in."

"Well, autopsy report just came in on Detective Boyle and forensics are pretty much sure on some initial conclusions. Pellets found lodged within the upper half of the body, the blood splatter on the floor, the 12-gauge found, the state of the body itself, and the pieces of flesh lying around, all link up to a pretty gruesome scene: Boyle was executed. Shot to the head, no mercy. 12-gauge still had 8 shells, so the murderer only got one off."

"Damn."

"Yeah. Along the blood trail that led from the car to the warehouse, we found fabric that could have come off Mikaela and Boyle. Blood's theirs. The car and the alleyway itself is a complete wreck. We couldn't find blood samples farther away from the car though, so no leads on their initial attackers."

"Work the picture for me."

"Well, okay, so Detectives Mikaela and Boyle are in their car, and they get shot at. They dive out, shoot back. A bit of fabric rubbed off on the road matches the clothing Boyle was found in. On the other end, where we believe their attackers struck from, we didn't find anything conclusive. Lot of empty rounds though. Fight probably gets personal at that point? A melee in the car, probably between Mikaela and some other dude. We found a bit of blood and skin residue on some glass shards. Mikaela's and somebody else. We're still processing that one. After that, the two get dragged into a warehouse a block down. We know that because Boyle's blood trail leads from the car to the warehouse in question. Once we're there it gets a bit hazy. Execution gets interrupted. We're still figuring that one out. Professional opinion here – it's the man in the mask. Characteristic of his style of breaking, entering and kicking ass. Probably saved Detective Mikaela's life."

"Get me more news on the blood sample you found on those glass shards, and keep me updated on the interrogation with the suspects we caught."

"Sure. One more thing, uh, you're not gonna like this one. Task Force is being set-up as we speak but the in-charge has already been decided. It's Hawthorne."

Brett stayed silent before he gave his thanks for the information. A detective murdered in cold blood and another still hanging by a thread, and the response was Hawthorne? Three times investigated, and three times cleared on what he personally considered were some very suspicious circumstances. He decided that he would have a chat with his precinct captain when he got back. For now, he turned his attention away and onto more pressing issues. He entered the room and placed a gentle hand on Jane. "Hey Jane, I need to talk to your dad in private. Is that okay?"

Jane gave a questioning glance to her father, who smiled in return, and nodded her head. Brett motioned for the nurse to take her outside. As the two took their leave, he closed the door behind them.

"Mahoney," said Keane in a low voice.

"Detective Mikaela. I'm glad you're back with us."

"Are you?" Drawled the detective.

"What- never mind. You know I have questions. I'll leave most to when you're better. We need to know who did it. Can you give us a name?"

"Who sent us?"

"What?" Brett raised an eyebrow and leaned in closer to Keane. He wasn't sure of what he heard.

"Who sent us?" The words lumbered out of the detectives mouth a second time.

This close, Brett could hear Mikaela's shallow breathing. "That's, well, that's not what's important right now, Keane. Who killed Detective Boyle? Was it the triads? The Russians?"

"Who sent-" Before he could finish, Keane started to cough loudly. The heart rate monitor to Brett's side began to beep wildly and all of a sudden, the nurse from before burst into the room. Brett was pushed back as the nurse rushed over to Keane before shouting to the sergeant to leave the room. A doctor rushed into the room, a whole slew of instructions in her wake.

"Sergeant Mahoney, out of the room! Now!"

With that, Brett took a wary step out as the doctor and the nurse began to wheel the patient out of the room and down the corridor. More nurses rushed to help as an announcement over the intercom called for another doctor. Jane came scrambling to him, her hands immediately grabbing Bretts.

"Where are they taking daddy?"

He looked to her father, and then to the child. As he felt her tiny hand grip the edge of his fingers, he knew he had no words to say. He stepped in front of her and kneeled slowly. He took her hands into his, clasping them together. He smiled weakly as she peered into his eyes. "Let's ask for a little help on this one, okay?"


End file.
